


Same Time Tomorrow

by significantowl



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, In about the Same Way that He Doesn't Kill People, Matt Doesn't Have Sex with Elektra, Mutual Masturbation, Panties, Post-Regrets Only, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 17:36:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6714457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Matt doesn’t let Elektra touch his stupid tie, not this time. She’s already wrapped around him almost everywhere it counts, hips and thighs and dick and balls. She’s curling through his lungs, she’s in every breath, but he can’t take her around his neck, too. He just can’t.</i>
</p><p>Or: the next time Elektra picks Matt up for a night on the town, she's a little more thorough when it comes to his wardrobe. </p><p>(For a "boys in panties" prompt on the kinkmeme.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Same Time Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> So many thanks to Capriccio and Ellicelluella for all the handholding and pompom-shaking! ♥ ♥

She’s waiting for him in the stairwell, half a flight down from the office. Her heartbeat is a study in boredom - a poor one, obviously faked. Silk skims Elektra's breasts, her hips, falls sleekly over her thighs, and she shifts as Matt approaches, moving her weight from one foot to another just to let him hear how the threads sigh over her skin. She knows him that well.

Matt's fingers twitch.

“There you are,” she says, holding something out to him. It’s a wardrobe bag; he smells pressed cotton, worsted wool, the crispness of starch. 

“Elektra -”

She makes everything a battle. Just getting down the stairs is a fight. If Matt said as much to her, she’d fire back _you love it_.

“What am I thinking? Start with these.” Elektra presses cool, slippery silk into his hand. It’s immediately obvious what she’s given him based on the elastic that snags against his fingers. And if the panties happen to be red, well, it's particularly appropriate, because Matt snatches his hand back like he’s been burned.

“No sex, Elektra. We said. _You_ said.”

“Oh, Matthew, I’m not going to touch your _cock_ ,” she says witheringly. “If you come tonight, that’s on you.” Elektra laughs, so damn pleased with herself. “Literally, even. Ah - how much longer before your friends leave your little office?”

On the floor above, Foggy’s sliding files in his satchel. Karen’s shouldering her bag. Most of the lights have been clicked off already; only one’s still humming. “Damn you, Elektra.”

She laughs again, deep in her throat, and he remembers believing no one else could quite make her do that like he could. “I could hope for nothing better from you, Devil,” she says, and Matt’s already in motion, damn her, damn her.

Trousers off, boxers off. Silk panties on.

There's time for one gasp as that soft, soft silk first brushes his dick, but then it’s tuxedo pants, shirt, his own worn-in shoes back on his feet - is she feeling sentimental, or does she think she’s funny? Wouldn’t Matt like to know - and they’re running down the stairs, Elektra giggling, Matt doing up the buttons on his shirt. Quick quick quick, because Foggy and Karen are on the move.

Of course, her car is waiting.

The silk moves with him as he bends, as he sits. She’s chosen the size well; they cup his ass as soft and snug as his fingers could expect from a perfect pair of kid gloves, and the elastic is exactly right around his thighs. Not too tight, not too loose, but impossible to simply forget.

The car is ostentatiously large, but still the enclosed quarters are bringing other things into stronger focus. The perfume dabbed at the nape of Elektra's neck is the sort that intrigues him, sweet but earthy, with layers of vanilla, tonka, and sandalwood, and a whisper of smoky lapsang souchong. She’s used a light hand - he’s probably the only one who could even tell she’s wearing any - because she knows exactly how easy it is to overwhelm him; Matt’s face grows hot as he remembers how she learned that, the pathetic sneezing fits she sat through back in college, rubbing the back of his neck and saying _poor baby_.

The tires whirr against the road. The car vibrates. His skin hums. 

Matt doesn’t let Elektra touch his stupid tie, not this time. She’s already wrapped around him almost everywhere it counts, hips and thighs and dick and balls. She’s curling through his lungs, she’s in every breath, but he can’t take her around his neck, too. He just can’t.

She knows exactly how easy it is to overwhelm him.

Tonight she's picked out another extravagant party high above the city, in a lofty-ceilinged room of stone and glass. Elektra's arm is bare beneath his hand, all soft skin and coiled strength, and he leans in and speaks closer to her ear than necessary, just to see if she'll shiver. “All right, what are we taking from this one?”

And there it is, in the susurration of the strands of her hair, and in the tiny tremble under his fingertips. She could have hidden it from anyone but him. Does try to hide it beneath a laugh and a lightly uttered, “A good time?”

Matt tips his head back and sighs.

“I mean, we could steal some crystal or a vase if you like, and I'm sure there's a safe we could crack into if you want to show off those skills of yours a bit more. But we were too busy for a dance the other night. And I wanted to. You did too.”

When Matt doesn't move, doesn't speak, just clenches his jaw, Elektra puts her mouth right to his ear. Tit for tat, apparently. “I'm sure some of these fine people have ties to organized crime,” she murmurs. “A turn around the dance floor with those ears of yours switched on, a few new leads on people you can hit, how’s that sound, hmm?”

Dancing with her, for her, in a body dressed by her. She knows exactly how it sounds.

Silk shifts against Matt’s skin as she takes his hand and leads him to the dance floor. He folds up his cane and tucks it away. The song’s not a bad one, slow enough to sway to, with a throb in the backbeat he feels in the base of his spine.

He drops her hand, fitting his palms to her hips instead. She likes a firm grip. Always has.

They move together effortlessly. In this, in fighting, or in sex, they've never been out of sync; their bodies have always found one another's beat. Elektra’s thigh presses into his as they turn, revolving slowly in place, and Matt slides a hand across to lie at the small of her back. Her skin is warm there, just above the plunging cut of her dress. But the skin at the nape of her neck is warmer still, beneath the fall of her hair, and it's even nicer to settle his other hand there. Make it heavy, give it weight.

The dance floor is crowded, alive with warm bodies, musky colognes and harsh perfumes, the sour tang of alcohol and the slow swell of the music. They're dancing more closely than most of the other couples, the reverberations of their steps converging almost instantaneously, in contrast to those of the surrounding dancers. Matt tips his nose against Elektra's hair. She smells better than anything in this room.

“Matthew.”

“Elektra.”

“Are you hard yet? - You don't have to answer if you'd rather not. It will certainly be easy for me to find out for myself.”

He laughs. “Do you really want to have that conversation right now?” He lets his fingertips brush the side of her throat. “Do you want me to start talking about how wet you are?”

The hum that rises from her sounds as if she's considering it, but Elektra says, “No, I suppose you're right. But by all means… keep thinking about it.”

She knows that's a given. That he won't be able to stop. That he could tell from the very beginning, from the scent of the same specific dyes overlying the same pure silk, that she wore a pair of panties that matched those she gave him. And, too, she must know that his fingers are twitching to trace the exact perimeter of the damp spot on the silk so warm between her legs; that his dick is twitching as well, creating a wet spot of its own. 

Elektra's already said she won't touch his cock, and it’s good that Matt believes her. It's good, because she's not supposed to. 

It's good when they follow their rules.

He's worn silk underwear before, boxers. But Matt learned quickly that wearing them outside of the bedroom was a mistake; he might manage just fine tucked inside their slippery softness for hours on end, but inevitably he would turn wrong, or move wrong, or _think_ wrong, and in a split second have a very serious situation going on in his pants.

But wearing those boxers was a piece of cake compared to this. They were roomy, they had gathers and pleats and folds, they made _space_ for a dick and balls. These panties don’t. They press against him, stretching sleek and taut from the elastic at his legs to that circling his waist, and hold him snugly, firmly cupping his balls while his dick slips and strains against the fabric.

True to her word, Elektra does discover the state of his cock for herself. As the last notes of the song fade away, she moves in close, all firm breasts and lean legs and sweet trim hips, and Matt's dick nudges up joyfully to meet the warmth between her thighs. No one else could soak up that intimate heat in quite the way that he can; anyone else would find it distanced and diminished by all the layers of clothing between them… but oh, God, can he _feel_.

There is a serious situation going on in his pants.

Matt's not the only one who knows it, either. With her mouth brushing his ear, Elektra whispers, “Can you hear me smile?” 

Does he need to? Matt has no idea what his own face is doing, at least, not until the pad of Elektra’s finger skates over his lower lip; he realizes then that his lips have parted, and that with every exhale he's letting loose a tiny, untamable gust. 

Thank God the next song is a faster one. It draws them apart, and Matt lets Elektra shine: holds her at arm’s length with his fingers overlapping her wrist, listens to her heels ring against the marble floor as she moves around him, executing flawless steps while he does little more than shift from foot to foot.

It should be a relief, this separation, but it doesn't last. _Faster_ gets Elektra’s blood up, _faster_ makes her heart pound like the prelude to a fight. Matt senses her spinning out away from him in a perfect turn, the folds of her dress swishing through the air, then braces himself as she spins back. She's moving too quickly for elegance, and he knows why. She's abandoned it in favor of an excuse to crash solidly against his body. 

Elektra laughs, a faux-tipsy giggle, while Matt sucks in a breath and keeps his hips still and steady with all the control he can muster. “I'm impressed, Matthew,” Elektra murmurs. “I know how I feel, right now, at this moment. I can only imagine what it's like for you…. Can you hold on for one more song? Just one.”

He can. He will. _Damn her._ He'd been determined to hold on indefinitely, but his dick throbs on hearing that the end is in sight, and Matt knows there are some battles with his body he just can't win.

One last dance, a waltz. Matt grits his teeth against the slippery pull of silk over his dick. He can't turn off his nose to the smell of arousal, Elektra's and his own; it's been ten long years since their scents mingled like this, and every inhale is a little too much like coming home.

Elektra’s eyes roam the room more during this dance than in any of the others. He can feel it whenever her head tilts in search of a better or different view. For himself, Matt's concentrating breathing in, breathing out, and trying ignore the rest of his body. And trying not to think about what Elektra’s behavior means; the idea that she _needs_ the distraction, that for her, looking at him during this last dance would just be too much…. That thought is too much for _him_. He stamps it out.

How long is this song?

Fighting not to hunch over is important, standing up straight is important. Leaning into his erection would mean leaning into Elektra, and that would be a bad idea right now, a very bad idea, her heat, the press of her body, they would probably be more than he could take. 

When the song finally ends, other people on the dance floor clap politely for the band. Elektra trails a hand over Matt's shoulder. “We’ve had more fun than _anyone_ else,” she says, giving his chest a pat. “Shall we leave them to it?”

“Men's room is empty.” And close by. The smell of bleach-based disinfectant is hard to miss, and the efforts to mask it with some stupidly expensive air freshener are even more so. He doesn't like admitting to himself how carefully he's been keeping an ear on the traffic in and out of it, though. Or why.

Elektra threads their fingers together. Her adrenaline is high - she's as ready for this as Matt is - and weaving through the crowd behind her rapid heartbeat sets Matt's blood pounding anew. He knows the music of her pulse, the crescendos it can reach, and it's everything, _everything_ , he wants to hear. 

Men's room. Roomy stall, high walls, funneling sound up towards the ceiling. A wooden door. His back against cold granite. Soft, soft silk.

He's not going to come in her panties. He's not going to give her the satisfaction.

He is definitely going to come.

Fumbling, Matt works his belt open. His hands shake on his zipper. He gives into the temptation to press his palm hard and flat against his dick, and a low sound slips from his throat that echoes off the tile. Elektra's leaning back against the door, causing it to rattle slightly on its hinges, and she's mimicking him, burying her hand between her legs, dress and panties shifting beneath her fingers.

Matt can taste her on the tip of his tongue. 

Silk is dragging over the head of his dick just like it's dragging against her folds. Dampness is spreading, on his panties, on hers, and he's thinking about what her heat would feel like, gliding over his dick -

Zipper down, zipper down, zipper _down_.

“Now, Matthew, I can't see,” Elektra says reprovingly, and he hitches up his shirttails, holding them up against his stomach with one hand while dragging his pants down to his knees with the other. Matt’s fingers are curled over the elastic at his waist, the panties are about to follow, he's about to be _free_ -

Elektra says, “Oh dear, why such a rush?”

It’s the tiny hitch in her breath, the slight stumble on the word _rush_ , that prompts Matt to freeze, jaw clenched tight. To let Elektra have one good long look at what she can't touch. 

“I must say, those suit you. You look thicker than you ever have before. Is it the packaging, or do you feel that way? Thicker?”

Heavy. The way Matt feels is heavy. Pounding with blood.

“Not that it matters, you look perfect.” Elektra’s not moving her hand, keeping it pressed still and steady between her legs, as if she's drawing out this moment for herself as well as for Matt. “This is how I always think of you. Too big for the limits you dress yourself in. Straining and desperate. Ready to break free.”

“Yeah. Well. At least I know what a limit is.”

He's making a good point here, but the only parts of the conversation his dick’s interested in are Elektra's words. She always did know how to choose them. The first time his dick twitches, Matt rides it out with a soft pant of breath, but the second time the slippery pull of silk over his slit is just too much, and he's shoving the panties down, wrapping his fist around his cock, and jerking up with a sob.

One tug. That's all it takes. His head slams back against tile as he comes hot and slick over his hand.

For a moment, all Matt hears is his own harsh breathing and thundering heartbeat. When he regains control, he can hear Elektra: hiking her dress up and her panties aside, working herself on her fingers, two thrusting shallowly inside, one, her thumb probably, nestling against her clit. Her hips rocking sweet and slow, her back shifting against the stall door, her head rolling to the side. Her breath. Little gasps, like a quietly-puffing train.

Last night, they kissed as part of a show for the guards, as part of the job. He won't drink those sounds from her lips tonight. He won't. 

It's an effort for Matt to keep his hand down at his side, and not to splay his hand over her throat and feel every soft vibration directly against his skin. When Elektra slides a hand up to her breast, Matt snaps. He crosses the space between them - two steps is all it takes, half-hobbled with his pants still bunched at his knees - and circles her wrist, forcing it up over her head. “Aw, but like you said, why the rush?” he asks softly. “How many hands did I need?”

“One,” she breathes. He knows that tone; she's _delighted_. Because of him. “One hand. One stroke.” 

Matt holds Elektra's wrist against the door. Breathes in through his mouth, then his nose, inhaling her deep. This close, the tremors of air triggered by the shift of her hips and the rise and fall of her chest roll over him like waves. Her pulse beats against his fingertips. 

One long moment to enjoy it. Tit for tat. Then Matt's squeezing Elektra's wrist, whispering, “Don't let me have all the fun,” and riding the wave when she shakes apart.

She laughs as she catches her breath, joy snatched between gasps of air, and the sound floods the room, reverberates off tile, soaks into the wood of the door. When Matt presses his forehead to the smooth wood grain, her laughter resonates in his skull.

After a beat, he joins her.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [tumblr](http://significantowl.tumblr.com)! Where I ship all the things :-)


End file.
